BETTER DAYS
There’s no emotion without thought, therefore stop thinking.
~ Fitzhenry Everhart
Hunter
“WHERE THE FUCK are you going?” Fitz stops me, raising an eyebrow.
“My daily doctor’s appointment,” I respond, annoyed at his attitude. My brothers have taken turns babysitting me since I broke up with Willow. They don’t comprehend that I don’t fucking need babysitting. Harrison requested two weeks off from work. Thank fuck he’s gone. Day and night, he followed me everywhere I went, except to the bathroom. “My schedule is clear until nine in the morning. Why do you care?”
“You know what you need?”
“Clearly, I have no fucking idea,” I growl at him, expecting what Harrison had suggested. Go fuck a few women and you’ll be cured. “Would you like to share your wisdom?”
“Stop thinking. Once you combine thoughts and feelings, your emotions just fuck with your head. If you avoid one, the other doesn’t affect you.”
He pulls out his wallet, handing me a wad of bills. “That’s cheaper than the three hundred dollars you’re throwing into the trashcan every fucking day.”
Staring at the money, I place it inside my wallet and turn around. “I don’t understand your point, but don’t ask for your money back.”
He laughs hard. “You go spend it all, little brother. Hey, do you want to go clubbing with Hazel and me tonight?”
I halt in my tracks, turning around. “It’s Tuesday.”
“You noticed, huh?” Fuck I hate that smirk.
“Isn’t she in North Carolina?”
“She’s transferring to Columbia. She’s focusing on Willow’s recovery—without Willow knowing.” He rubs the back of his neck. “To be honest, I think she’s focusing on herself and kicking the ghosts in her head. She wants to be strong for Willow.”
I nod, waiting for more information about the sisters. Hazel and I haven’t spoken since Willow’s birthday. It’s strange, but I want to give her some room. That’s what I tell myself when in fact I’m a fucking coward, and I fear she’s going to rip my balls off for not staying by Willow’s side.
“Is Willow going with you tonight?”
“Why don’t you just ask what you want to know?”
Tapping my chest with my right hand, I think about his question. What do I want to know? Nothing. She’s free to go wherever she wants. Even to a place I avoid at all cost. “As I said, I want to know if she’ll be going with you.”
He gives me his fucking I might not tell you stare. “Fuck, Fitzhenry. Either you tell me what the fuck is going on, or you keep your shit to yourself.”
“No, she’s not going. She’s in Sedona at a retreat.”
“For the record, I only want to know if she’s doing better.” I give him a sharp nod and leave the house.
I think I hear him say “fucking liar.” He’s wrong. That’s part of what I want to know. In reality, I want to know everything that’s happening to her. Be by her side. Fitz barely discusses the Beesley sisters. Harrison doesn’t understand why I broke up with her if I’m moping for her. Still, he’s happy with the outcome. Scott’s only comment has been, “what a relief.” He feared I’ll do something stupid—like buying a six-million-dollar brownstone in Brooklyn.
Fuck, what was I thinking when I finalized the purchase? I was hoping that she’d say yes to my impromptu proposal and would be moving in with me within a week. What kind of guy does something like that? The average male doesn’t care whether they have a steady relationship or not, or if they get married and have a family.
“Would you like me to drive you?” Jensen is already downstairs, waiting next to the car.
“Why haven’t you married?” I counteract his question.
“I was in love once.” He opens the door, closes it, and when he slides into the driver’s seat he smiles. “No, I’m still in love. It just wasn’t meant to be.”
There’s no sadness, only longing in those words. Can I be capable of being content with my life? I might find my answer today when I present my case to my therapist.
“You want to start dialectical behavior therapy?”
He’s done with you, Everhart. Fuck, Fitz just said it, you’re throwing your money away. This is overkill.
I’m trying to find a new way of treatment.
It’s an excuse to cover the compulsion to fix what you fucked.
I didn’t fuck anything!
You broke up with her, why couldn’t you just shut your fucking mouth and pretend to be normal?
Pretending and lying are two different things. Willow saw my flaws, witnessed my episodes and would never believe I’m not broken. Pretending for her would be lying, and we were past appearances. We have stepped into I show you my scars, and you show me yours.
Coward, you couldn’t handle her scars!
Exactly, I am not capable of tending to my own wounds; I can’t possibly care for hers.
“Are you okay, Hunter?”
Sighing, I give him a sharp nod, breathe deeply, and get on with my explanation.
“I understand it was created for people with borderline personality disorder,” I say. My research began when I tried to understand Willow’s condition. While doing so, I discovered the treatment has also been effective for other disorders. Requesting a referral to join a DBT group is the next step. “But if you review the latest papers, you will be able to find patients with different diagnoses have benefited from it as well.”
We go into technical terms, and some examples I’ve printed from the forums I’ve been reading in the past couple of weeks. Cognitive therapy is effective for most, but sometimes patients need something more intense, like DBT. Whether this is true or not I don’t know—I’m a lawyer, not a doctor. At least, I have to give it a try.
This therapy will help me comprehend that there’ll always be good and bad. Heaven and hell. Willow is both. She’s the biggest storm I’ve encountered. It comes at you violently without warning, total darkness prevails for a minute, and just as it arrived, it leaves behind a calm sensation. The angry waves leave a devastation of immense proportion. The sunshine deters our view from the debris. I only had eyes for her. She engulfed me inside the eye of the storm. I was so determined to have her that I never noticed the wrath and tempest, nor the spontaneous changes in her.
Yet, I’m here discussing technical terms I have to Google. Discussing the probabilities of going to a specific therapy that might not be for me. All because, if I’m lucky, someday she’ll be ready for me, and I’ll be ready for her. Knowing how to handle my demons, ready to teach her how to navigate my world while I help her hold a light in the darkness that’s her mind.
How can I stay away?
My mind and heart continue to be confused about my feelings for her. Was it love, an infatuation, or just a simple attraction? A fucking magnetic attraction that continues. Even when she’s not around, I feel like she’s right beside me. I see her everywhere. The woman awoke my soul. I can’t understand what that means or if there’ll ever be something beyond what we shared. She made me feel like I was the only star illuminating her darkest corners—the one who breathed air into her lungs. And for one moment, I believed she loved me—hard.
She sent me a text that became my inspiration.
WILLOW: Our meeting wasn’t an accident. It was my wake-up call. Thank you for showing me what I can have.
HUNTER: What is it that you want to have?
WILLOW: The calm you created when you were around me. Your arms were my safe haven when the wind arose, pushing my mind toward the gates of hell. You placated the hurricanes that threaten my sanity. I want that, to feel safe . . . to create my own shelter.
If anything, for the rest of my life, I plan on being deserving of her or at least learning how to deal with the shit inside my head. To stop wishing for what I had instead of enjoying life.
The good doctor smiles when I share the statistics of DBT. I’m just trying to find the best resolution to what I call my problem.
“You’re obsessive, Hunter. I am not sure this fixation with DBT, and your anxiety, are helping that part of your psyche.”
“Probably not, but according to my findings, DBT is based on Buddhism.” I open my notes and read about being Zen and learning how to stop choosing, and instead, going with the feel of relativity. “That in itself is a step forward to adjusting my compulsion. Win, win, Doctor.”
He scratches his eyebrow with the tip of his index finger, exhaling loudly. “We tried medication, CBT, and many other treatments. I don’t see why we can’t give it a go. I just want you to do it for the right reasons.”
“Me too, Doctor, me too.”
There’s no right or wrong. There’s only the will to change myself. But I don’t say anything else. I leave with a phone number to call, and a promise that he’ll email the group to ensure I have a spot. Apparently, there’s always a waiting list, but he assures me, that in my case, they’ll make an exception. And no, it isn’t because of my money. It’s because I’m part of the club. The club of orphans who lost a parent during the nine-eleven attack. We have a label, and nothing we do will remove it.